I am woman, hear me moan.

I am, in the words of Destinys Child an Independent Woman. I lock my door every morning, and turn the grill off each night – therefore a I’m a responsible, mature, adult. However it has become increasingly apparent that a not-so-select majority of the males feel the need to treat me like a confused sparrow attempting to fly through glass. Then as if they weren’t irritating enough the bloody gender have the audacity to slap the ‘woman constantly complain’ label on me and my fellow sparrows! I think I speak on behalf of my gender, (or at least the suffragettes) when I say that I do not appriciate this treatment, it and I do not accept it. I am woman, you will not only hear me moan, you will bloody sit up and listen.

Last week being the level headed woman that I am, found myself in a heap at the side of a road with black marks all over my face, wailing in dismay from attempting to change a flat tire. Cliche` as it may seem I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable, only to discover that I’m not. So ashamed and mildly discusted by my reflection I solomly called the break down cover I pay £70 a year for. Ashamed at resorting to the male race for aid, I was not exactly pleased with to be greeted with a grunt, and a estimated time of arrival, which rivaled the time it would have taken me to push the 3 wheeled rust bucket home. My entire break down experiance was far from idilic, the calandar image of the sweaty, spannor clutching machanic with his t-shirt discarded to reveal his toned washboard stomach…well its misleading to say the least. My first encounter with the mechanic reminded me vividly of a trip to the pub with my dad when I was 17, a group of hairy middle aged men learing and repulsive. Now I don’t want to make a generalisation…I’m sure there are pleanty of handsome, charming, and honest machanics out there – please feel free to contact me if so – I am mearly describing the men I encountered at Garys Automobile and Petro station – (Petro – as the ‘L’ had swung free of its hinges and was dangling precatiously above a paying customers car).

Numerous things happened on that afternoon, I was called ‘darlin’’ and ‘little miss’ countless times, each time causing an involantary urge to punch the speaker. I have never one refered to a man who I don’t know, let alone a customer in whatever job I’ve had, as ‘darlin’’ or ‘big mr’ because for some bizzar loop hole in society, it has become a norm for a man to talk to a woman like a child or a sexual object yetn ot visa versa. So this brief rant regarding the downfalls of mechanics and men, is (hopefully) the beggining of a revolution, fellow women unite, I urge you to woolfe whistle at builders, leer out of your car windows, beep and yell, treat men how they’ve treated you – and always, always call machanics ‘darlin’’.